“Have a safe drive to Wyoming, Sebastian,” Nick chuckled:
“Don’t forget to clean out your desk before noon.”
I did not drive to Wyoming.
I did not deposit the fifty-thousand-dollar check.
I sat in my car until Nick and Carter’s shadows disappeared through the tinted glass double doors of the lobby.
Then, I picked up the envelope from the passenger seat.
I did not open it.
I slid it into the interior pocket of my suit coat, right over my heart, feeling the heavy, crisp weight of the bank draft pressing against my ribs like a lead sinker.
I reached down to the floorboards beneath the driver’s seat.
There, tucked inside the spare tire compartment beneath the trunk carpet—where I had placed it three minutes after the paramedics loaded the woman into the ambulance on Route 6—was an item that Carter Holbrook would have burned half of Denver to possess:
A four-inch, titanium-sleeved **military-grade cryptographic transponder key** stamped with the historic insignia of the **United States Maritime Administration**:
`THE SOVEREIGN KEY // CODE: ANCHOR-OAK-01`
`REGISTRY: ELEANOR VANCE-STERLING`
`PROPERTY OF: THE UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT // SPECIAL ADMIRALTY DIVISION`
The woman had not dropped it into the gravel.
When her fingers had clamped around my wrist during compression forty-two… she had slipped the cold, heavy metal shank directly into the open pocket of my suit trousers.
She had chosen me.
Not because I was a brilliant strategist.
Not because I had a fancy degree from Stanford.
She had chosen me because when thirty-five cars drove past an open grave on a mountain shoulder at seventy miles an hour… I was the only man who stepped into the dirt to break his hands against her ribs.
I stepped out of the Honda.
The eleven o’clock sun was beating down onto the asphalt of the Vanguard parking lot with dry, high-altitude fury.
I did not slouch.
I did not look at the ground.
I walked through the revolving glass doors of the lobby, my scuffed leather dress shoes making a clean, concussive *tack… tack… tack* against the green Italian marble floorboards.
The receptionist—a twenty-two-year-old girl named Jenny who had started three weeks ago—looked up from her console.
When she saw me walking toward the security turnstiles, her face drained of all color:
“Mr….
Mr.
Miller…?”
Jenny stammered, her hands hovering over her telephone extension:
“Nick… Mr.
Sterling gave explicit instructions to the building security… He said you were not permitted past the reception desk!”
